


Panopticon

by rodabonor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bored Sherlock, Kissing, M/M, POV Second Person, Porny Use of Foucault, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Mess, There was not a tag for that, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodabonor/pseuds/rodabonor
Summary: When restless boredom is eating away at you, and you seek comfort in the arms of the one who harms you most.





	

You are -  
_restrained_ , more than anything. An explosive power-house of brilliance kept in line by virtue of impossibly rigid self-control. Since always, a never changing constant of your nature. Vibrating underneath your skin, the restless need of action, stimulus, _something._ For weeks the consuming sense of boredom has been gnawing away at you, making you itch and twitch with pent up vivacity; you either pace around the flat in short fits of energy, or lay perfectly still, silent while the cogs of your mind turn uselessly without any information to process. In your bed, on the floor. The couch. _Dull, dull, dull._ Facing that terrible wallpaper. _Agony._

That terrible, terrible wallpaper. You can feel the greasy locks of your hair sticking to the back of your neck, the sharp scent of the thin film of cold sweat covering your body. When did you last shower? You don't know. Don't care.

Dull.

 _Agony._

 

*

”Hi. _Gooorgeous._ ” 

His mouth pops open in a perfect _o_ as he purposely lingers on the first syllable of the word, undoubtedly reveling in the mask of indifference plastered to your face. He knows the state you are really in. It doesn't matter that he knows, or that you know that he knows. His lips stretch into a playful grin, not completely lacking of malice, and you think to yourself that you shouldn't be here. However, it's not like you had even the semblance of a choice – you somehow knew immediately who it was that suddenly made your phone blow up with phonecalls, texts and e-mails, and you decided even before confirming your suspicions that you'd come. Like always.

”Come now. You agreed to see me. Why the looong face?”

Again the plump flesh of his lips form effortlessly around the rounded vowel, his voice stretching the word to the point where you can't help imagining it: a row of _o_ 's, spread out before your minds' eye. He smiles yet again, as if he could see it too. You think, in a brief moment of crazed paranoia, that he can. Your mind is far more fragile than some might think, given the right amount of pressure, the right amount of exposure to the things which even under normal circumstances threaten to send you over the edge-

”Have you heard of Panopticon?”

He studies your face attentively as he asks the sudden question. You almost furrow your brow. 

”Naturally.”

He starts pacing, gesturing wildly with his hands as he begins to lecture you on the subject, as if he didn't hear you.

”The design of the facility – Panopticon, that is – allowed one single watchman to observe every inmate in the institution at once. Granted, it's impossible for one person to actually supervise all those inmates at the same time, but the point is that none of the inmates knew when they were being watched: only that they might be at any point.”

”Which lead to them effectively controlling their own behavior, regardless of being supervised.” 

You cut in out of spite, but it doesn't feel satisfying at all. He stops and looks at you again.

”Yeah.” His eyes are wide and searching, looking at you almost innocently, curiously. You know, however, that it's merely his mannerism and quirks. ”Now, one might argue that modern society in itself is a sort of Panopticon. Only it needs no cells, no ball and chain. There's just... invisible forces, if you will, people's _expectations_ regulating behavior.” 

He walks up to you, slowly, stopping only when he's close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. 

”Who would Sherlock Holmes be _unsupervised_?”

 

*

 

He is -  
nothing like anything you have ever been. Sometimes you think that being Moriarty must be _infinitely_ easy compared to being you. All that superficial camp and charm, like a flimsy veil draped over pitch black darkness. You imagine there to be a gaping hole where his morals ought to be. Sometimes, that thought makes you jealous. You know deep down that you could be truly brilliant if you were more like that, unburdened by your sense of morals and goodness. Then again, what is brilliance without goodness? What might it be worth? 

You don't ask yourself such questions, because you have a feeling you know the answer.

”Who _would_ I be, unsupervised? That is a strange way of phrasing it. Obviously I'm not constantly supervised – your choice of words suggests not only that I am, but that there can't ever be a _me_ outside of supervision.”

”Oh, but there can't be.” His smile quickly vanishes from his face. ”Of _course_ there can't be. Aren't you following? You need no supervision, because you're effectively supervising yourself, silly.” He stretches out a hand and pats your cheek roughly, yet tenderly, as one might a pet. You understand, now, what he's getting at, and feel yourself getting light-headed from rage at the notion of not immediately gaining the upper hand of the conversation. ”That is the point of Panopticon, remember?” 

”You wanted to meet up at this abandoned factory to discuss my knowledge of the social sciences?” You say sharply as he snakes an arm around your waist and lets his warm fingers ghost across the cool skin of your face. You don't stop to think about whether it's bothering you or not.

”In a way, I suppose...” He trails off, pressing his fingers into your cheek. ”You know, I could never stop thinking about you.” His grip tightens. ”Sometimes I wish I could just reach into your head and...” 

He trails off again. You are sure it's intentional. 

 

*

 

When you kiss, it's like most other kisses you had. Well, like the few other kisses you had. Wet, sloppy and ultimately rather devoid of meaning. Not, however, devoid of purpose – this kiss is no doubt the start of a series of events with a clear objective. He pulls at your collar, moaning into your mouth while grinding against you, and you try to keep up, until you hear a low growl building in his throat and feel his hands push you on to the cold, hard concrete floor. 

” _Disappointing!_ ” 

He shrieks, almost like a child throwing a fit, stomping his feet and balling his fists. You think of yourself the last few weeks, holed up in the apartment, sprawled out on the floor. Unmoving, silent. _Disappointing_. One would think you're very different, but you're awfully similar; then again, one might think you're similar, but you're awfully different too.

” _I'm_ the only one watching. Could you ever even imagine such a thing in that tethered mind of yours?” He sits down on top of you, a dark glint in his eyes. His voice is low and rough, as if he's trying to threaten you. ”There is nothing else. There is only me. Or better yet; there is no one, not even me. Could you ever imagine that?” 

”I don't particularly like to occupy myself with such trite, pseudo-philosophical speculations.” You say, evenly and firmly, acutely aware of the weight of him on top of your thighs. ”Things _are_ , and so I _am_. Whether I want it or not, I am confined within societal expectations and institutionalized rules. As are you.” You lock eyes with him. ”In fact, you rebelling against these expectations only serve to acknowledge and confirm their existence.”

He bursts out giggling, clapping his hands delightedly as he stands up yet again, pacing around the room. You decide to rise as well, standing still with your mask of indifference slightly bruised as the slighter man is practically skipping around you.

”Oh, you.” He says gleefully. ”Finally, _finally_.” He comes to a stop in front of you. ”I _missed_ you, love. You've been awfully despondent, it isn't good for you to be away from me for so long, I can tell. Let's do this.”

 

*

 

 _Dull_ -

Never; the fluid movements of his narrow hips drawing soft gasps from your lips, the heat of his skin scorching as he tugs and strokes and pulls and bites, violent and desperate, moaning and whining and wailing all the while. Even now, you are a storm brewing behind dark clouds of rain while he is a raging blizzard, destroying all in its path. In this respect, you are a series of conflicting contrasts and opposites. His kiss is still much like any other kiss, and the sexual intimacy as such is neither skillfully executed nor any more physically stimulating than anything you could provide for yourself. There is just - 

_Something_ , dulling the sharp edges of your mind, making your inner turmoil come to a halt. Temporarily, anyway.

”Nothing else. Only me.” He pants with a smile, smoothing down the disheveled locks of hair on your head. He bites your neck playfully, then harshly, drawing blood. You wince, but can't help but to buck up at the sensation, bring the two of you closer together. _Agony_. His mouth is right next to your ear, his breath warm and sweet as ever. ” _Not even me._ ”


End file.
